An Assortment of Drabbles
by ChocolateIsMyDrug
Summary: 'Emma'-inspired drabbles of all kinds in no particular order: missing moments, AUs, sequels, prequels, mostly Regency, maybe a few modern.
1. Doors

**A/N:** I'm trying to get over writer's block by writing these, some random _Emma_ drabbles on any moments in the novel, sequel bits, prequel bits, AUs, whatever. I'm hoping that with no pressure to update, and no story continuity, it'll help just to get me writing again.

Hope you like the first one – please review with any thoughts!

* * *

**Doors**

* * *

'Emma, my dear, could I ask you to shut the window? Only I fear the draught will be too much for your constitution.'

It is the height of summer, sweltering and alleviated only slightly by the occasional breeze which enters through the open window to the sitting room.

Yet winter or summer, fair or foul, doors are shut, windows are closed, fires are stoked and shawls stifle her.

Mostly she humours her father, but sometimes she feels so _weary_, despite her naturally sunny disposition, and she sees no way out. And if this thought or anything like it ever occurs to her, she is riddled with guilt.

Sighing, she obeys her father, and goes to close the window.

However as she observes the familiar tall figure approaching up the path, her melancholy is forgotten. The next moment her heart leaps as Mr. Knightley enters the room, leaving the door as open as his smile.


	2. Names

**A/N:** Thoughts? This one was surprisingly easy to write; I bet Austen chose the names of her characters very carefully.

* * *

**Names**

* * *

They had all been well-named, she thought. She knew that at times she could be rather _wooden_-headed, and Mr. _Knight_ley – gentle, kind, chivalrous, loyal – was nothing if not his name.

The former Miss Taylor had always been the peacemaker, the one to smooth things over, to keep them all stitched together.

Emma herself could have been said to be the one to '_harry'_ poor Harriet, and she had been _baited_ by Miss Bates' way of talking to say things which she bitterly regretted.

Both Jane Fairfax's complexion and her keen sense of moral uprightness could have earned her the description of _fair_.

However, some seemed to have been named in irony: _Frank _Churchill could hardly have been less so, and _August_a Elton was anything but.

And although she knew that her knight was almost certainly going to marry his poor, harried damsel in distress, she could not suppress the wistful hope that it would instead be in Emma Wood_house_ that he would find a home.


	3. Rain

**A/N:** Slightly AU ;-). Please review!

* * *

**Rain**

* * *

She gasps when she sees him – the one she has been only a moment ago thinking of as unquestionably sixteen miles distant – striding towards her across the Hartfield lawns, dripping wet, his sodden coat over his arm and the shirt underneath it soaked to the point of being translucent. She swallows hard.

'You must have had a wet ride,' she says stupidly.

He blinks. 'Yes.'

In her mind's eye she can almost see him, bent low over his horse to urge it on faster, the heavy droplets pelting him, plastering his hair to his forehead, rolling down his neck, soaking his clothes so that they cling to him in all the right places, his long fingers slipping on the reins, the muscles of his thighs contracting as he squeezes the horse's flank–

_Oh God. _Her face has never been so hot.


	4. Apples

**A/N:** Set about halfway-ish through the novel. Let me know what you think!

* * *

**Apples**

* * *

Donwell apples are the best in the whole county, and certainly the best she has ever tasted. Crisp, firm and juicy with just the right amount of sweetness, they are equally good when eaten fresh as they are in cooking.

When she was a little girl, she remembers that Donwell apples were promised as a treat for good behaviour on the part of herself, John and Isabella. They had been one of the most effective bribes employed on her.

Even now, every year she looks forward to the time when the fruit will ripen in the orchards at the Abbey, and Mr. Knightley will bring a large basket to Hartfield for herself and her father.

And yet this year the fruit tastes sour in her mouth with the knowledge that Mr. Knightley has given Jane Fairfax a whole barrel, even though it will leave none for himself. She has never before realised that the sweetness of the apples depends on the exclusiveness of the affection which gifts them.


	5. Sketches

**A/N:** Let me know what you think!

* * *

**Sketches**

* * *

Miss Taylor, her soft features softened further, her still-pretty face made more youthful than in reality.

Isabella, surrounded by her four children (all of whom are interchangeable, so similar do they look), with the figure of her maiden days, and the bloom of her first youth.

Mr. Woodhouse, as he might have been ten years ago, the lines of his face fewer and less pronounced, his hairline generously modified.

John, already tall and made taller, shoulders slightly broader, nose a little straighter, lips slightly fuller – a handsomer version of himself.

Harriet Smith, her figure rendered elegant by added height, her eyebrows and eyelashes given a definition which they lack in real life.

With these examples of Emma's portraits before him, with all their subjects' imperfections corrected according to her vision, Mr. Knightley cannot but feel gratified when his wife presents him with a portrait of himself, exactly as he is.


	6. Turkeys

**A/N:** Sort of a rehash of an idea I've used in a previous story, but tell me what you think anyway!

* * *

**Turkeys**

* * *

When the Westons' turkeys are taken, what wags tongues most is that though they were stolen soundlessly during the night, a generous sum has been left in their coop as if in payment.

Theories of the thief or thieves' identities vary, from honourable gypsies to drunken (and apparently rich) eccentrics, to the Westons themselves doing it to enjoy the attention (this is Mrs. Elton's firm opinion, anyway).

The furore has hardly died down when, a day or two after the theft, Mr. Knightley invites his closest friends to Donwell Abbey for dinner in order to celebrate finally having a date set for his wedding to Miss Emma Woodhouse of Hartfield.

The Westons give the happy couple cordial congratulations and are genuinely ecstatic for them; the Bates ladies are all delight (very vocal delight on Miss Bates' part); Jane Fairfax's congratulations are quiet but sincere, and if ever Mr. Knightley could look on Frank Churchill with an eye approaching complacent, it is now at his genuine – but yes, slightly shame-faced – well-wishes to Emma and himself; and Mr. Woodhouse, whose consent for the wedding has been gained through fear of the turkey thieves, seems rather more reconciled to the idea of the match, for his only lament tonight is that the food is probably too rich for delicate constitutions (which, incidentally, exactly _none_ of the guests of Donwell Abbey possess – not even excluding the old gentleman himself).

Emma has to disagree with her father. The food is excellent, and thanks to Mrs. Hodges' careful overseeing, the turkeys are cooked to perfection. She catches Mr. Knightley's eye and they share a smile at her father's foibles, but then after a moment her smile becomes wondering as something registers in her mind.

To the best of her knowledge, the Donwell farms don't keep turkeys…


	7. Cold

**A/N:** Please review – hope you like it!

* * *

**Cold**

* * *

Inside of Hartfield, Emma has very rarely – if ever – known cold. With blazing fires all year round due to her father's fear of cold (weather and illness both), one is far more likely to feel hot than otherwise.

Perversely, Emma loves winter. She loves the crispness of the air, the delicious shiver that goes down her spine at a brisk wind, the beauty of the deadened but white-cloaked landscape around her, the icy dissolution of a snowflake on the tip of her tongue, the tingling numbness of her pink nose when she comes in from the cold. It's this coming in that she loves most – she feels that to fully appreciate warmth, one must experience cold. It's something her father has never understood.

It's this thought which suddenly comes to Emma's mind one unbearably hot day in summer as she hears Mr. Knightley's impassioned, angry words about her behaviour towards Miss Bates and just _knows_ that she is wrong and he's horribly, _horribly_ right. When she sees the icy fire in his eyes and feels her blood run cold in her veins at the thought that she's lost his respect, she knows that she would give anything to bask once more in the warmth of his smile.


	8. Selfishness

**A/N:** Please review!

* * *

**Selfishness**

* * *

She had always been selfish when it came to sharing Mr. Knightley's affection, since she was a little girl. He was _her_ Mr. Knightley, she was the first in his affections, and that was all there was to it. Any woman who dared eye him would have to face her wrath.

She hated them all: with their fluttering eyelashes, their way of hanging onto his every word, their infuriatingly pretty faces and womanly figures, their false titters of laughter, their way of petting her and cooing over how 'charming' they thought her, no matter how rude she was to them.

It didn't matter to her if her bluntness sometimes turned Mr. Knightley's eyes to her in stern warning; she did not mind being on the receiving end of his irritation, if only it took his admiring gaze away from whichever woman he was talking to.

And yet today as she saw his eyes directed towards someone else with adoration in their expression, she did not mind. For once she did not mind sharing her place as first in his affections; indeed she would be a hypocrite to begrudge it, since in her heart too her newborn daughter shared pride of place with her husband.


	9. Handwriting

**A/N:** Thoughts? Please let me know.

* * *

**Handwriting**

* * *

Frank Churchill was a gentleman, and therefore good enough for Harriet. Robert Martin was not, and therefore not. This Emma knew; everything about both men declared it. Why, just by looking at samples of each man's handwriting, this was clear.

Frank Churchill's handwriting, judging from the letters which Mrs. Weston had shown her, was very neat, very elegant. However much Mr. Knightley might denigrate it as lacking in strength, and seeming like a woman's writing in its loops and flourishes, Emma admired it – there was no denying that it was clear, and beautifully consistent.

In contrast, Robert Martin's handwriting was hardly better than a scrawl. To be fair, in his letter to Harriet it began well enough, and though lacking any embellishment, the strong, direct renderings of the letters reminded Emma of Mr. Knightley's writing. However, as the letter progressed, the quality of the writing grew erratic. In places it grew almost hard to decipher, and the paper was not entirely devoid of blots. No self-respecting gentleman would _ever_ send a letter in that state.

It was some time before Emma began to see that Frank Churchill's handwriting, just like his façade, was laboured over so that no errors, no betrayals of his true feeling were discernable; both were carefully constructed, and neither gave much idea about the man behind them.

And it was only when she was experiencing all the pangs and terrors and doubts of unrequited love that she was able to see that Robert Martin's letter was one written in true feeling. His pen had quickened its pace with the beat of his heart, and slowed as he racked his brains for the right words which it was so vital that he find; and if there were blots it was because his hand had shaken at the thought of how his declaration might be received.

Frank Churchill's missives contained pretty phrases, feeble excuses and empty promises; Robert Martin's letter contained the honest, open declaration of a man in love; and only now – far, far too late – did Emma know that she would do anything to receive such a letter, blots and all, from Mr. Knightley.


	10. Playground

**A/N:** Modern drabble this time. Dedicated to all those who have been privileged enough to attend a playground wedding; or its hilarious and almost inevitable sequel, the playground divorce.

* * *

**Playground**

* * *

'I'm sorry, Em. It was rotten of him to ditch you like that, just before the wedding.' Six-year-old Jack's sympathy was evident in his eyes.

Five-year-old Emma shrugged, not unduly bothered. 'I was thinking of cancelling the whole thing myself; even though he's Fred Churchill, he's still a stupid _boy_.' Jack listened without protest, knowing by now that statements like these from Emma always excluded himself.

She sighed. 'Still, it would have been nice to have a playground wedding.' She could picture it now: rings made of twisted blades of grass, daisy chain bracelets, bridesmaids perched on the monkey-bars, groom waiting by the swings, and herself the bride, making her grand entrance down the slide…

'Maybe – maybe there can still be a wedding,' Jack said suddenly, and she looked at him in surprise and dismay. She knew Hayley had been hoping for a playground wedding of her own, and the other girl's idea of prospective groom had deeply disturbed her.

'No!' she cried immediately, stomping her foot and pouting heavily. 'I don't want you to– I don't want there to be a wedding.'

'Oh.' He looked down at his Thomas the Tank Engine trainers, looking so disappointed that Emma couldn't bear it.

She relented almost instantly, slipping her hand into his. 'Okay, fine, get married.' She couldn't prevent the note of bitterness from creeping into her voice. 'At least make me a bridesmaid, won't you?'

He looked at her in disbelief. 'Em, I want you to be the _bride_,' he said slowly.

For a moment she simply goggled at him, stunned, but then she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him so tight he couldn't breathe.


	11. Haircut

**A/N:** Just a silly bit of fun. Dedicated to Ewan McGregor's _awful_ wig in the 1996 film.

* * *

**Haircut**

* * *

When the Coles were busy in entertaining their other guests and he was sure nobody else was observing them, Mr. Knightley walked over to stand next to Frank Churchill. 'So, Mr. Churchill, why did you _really_ go to London?' he said conversationally.

The young man started, and then laughed nervously. 'What can you mean, sir? I went to get a haircut, as I believe I've mentioned.'

Mr. Knightley raised a sceptical eyebrow. 'I find that hard to believe,' he said, eyeing Churchill's hair which appeared unchanged in length, still almost brushing his shoulders and unchanged in style, still almost feminine in its flow (though perhaps a little too straggly for that).

The young man had the grace to brush, self-consciously running a hand through his – obviously uncut and when all was said and done, rather unbecoming – hair. 'These dashed London hairdressers, you know. Charge you a fortune and send you out looking much the same as you did going in.'

'Indeed, it is almost criminal,' he agreed. Then his lips twitched. 'Those who deceive ought to be punished; do you not agree, Mr. Churchill?'

Without waiting for an answer, a satisfied smile on his face, Mr. Knightley made his way across the room to Emma.


	12. Proposal

**A/N:** Hi guys – my shocking lack of updates/new fanfic in the past two months or so is due to a massive midyear exam on all stuff we've learned so far, plus more than one mega assignment plus music commitments. So sorry about that – hopefully once the exam is over (June 15), there will be more.

Anyway, let me know what you think of this drabble!

* * *

**Proposal**

* * *

'I must – indeed I _must_ avail myself of this precious opportunity to declare sentiments which must already be well-known to you, hoping – fearing – _adoring_ – I believe I shall _die_ if you refuse me…'

As he paused for breath he sneaked a quick glance at her to see how she was responding, and was pleased at the result of his speech thus far. She was affecting astonishment, as was required of her modesty – but he was sure she knew and understood him by now.

'But I flatter myself that my _ardent_ attachment and unequalled love – my unexampled passion could not fail of having _some_ effect.' It was the correct moment to raise his beseeching eyes to hers, and he did so, inwardly satisfied with the effect.

'Everything that I have said or done these many hours – nay, _days_ – past has been with the view of marking my adoration for yourself. _Surely_ you can bring yourself to accept me?'

She fluttered her eyelashes. 'Oh, Mr. _Elton_–' she had begun to exclaim in tones of utterly feminine – and utterly feigned – confusion.

He cut across her, seizing her hand in his and covering it with kisses. 'Philip, my love – call me Philip!'

'Very well… _Philip_. I must say, your most gracious proposal has taken me _completely_ by surprise, though my friends _did_ think you admired me beyond the common. In fact, dear Selina was saying to me that on the very day we met, you…'

His attention began to wander as she reflected on the minutiae of their (thankfully brief) acquaintance.

Good God, would the woman never shut up? Well, he didn't care really, so long as she gave him a positive answer. He had hardly picked her for her wit, after all. Her brand of beauty was in the style of Emma Woodhouse's, though her mode of dress looked – to his eye – far more fashionable and expensive; and her birth might be inferior, but her fortune, though not to rival Miss Woodhouse's, was nevertheless considerable.

Yes, they would do very well together. If she would ever stop talking about herself and give him an answer, that is.


End file.
